


I shine only with the light you gave me

by SkyScribbles



Series: A thousand fingerprints on the surfaces of who I am [14]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Dancing, Emotionally Abusive Parenting, Established Relationship, Fancy Balls, Gen, I think the wizards should have a little slow dancing. as a treat, In which Essek unpacks some family-induced insecurities, M/M, Post C2E99, Sibling Bonding, family tensions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:28:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25185619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyScribbles/pseuds/SkyScribbles
Summary: There are certain things that an Umavi's son should not do, if he wishes to avoid his mother's rage and the disgust of his Den.Dancing with a human is most certainly among them.
Relationships: Deirta Thelyss & Essek Thelyss, Essek Thelyss & Verin Thelyss, Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast
Series: A thousand fingerprints on the surfaces of who I am [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1874992
Comments: 59
Kudos: 716





	I shine only with the light you gave me

**Author's Note:**

> This is set about a year after current canon, because I think a pre-redemption arc Essek would rather be poisoned again than unpack these insecurities. Though this is part of a series, you don't need to have read the other works to follow this one.
> 
> (If Deirta proves to be an OK mother in canon I will issue her a formal apology but considering Essek's issues? Doubt.png.)

The moment the Mighty Nein enter the ballroom, Essek knows.

He knows before he hears their voices or sees the brightness of their clothes against the crowd. He knows before the curious faces turn towards them, before the herald calls their names. There’s an energy that only the Mighty Nein bring to a room, and Essek recognises it with the same easy instinct that he recognises the lightning-scent of his own magic. They are his only friends. He knows how the air tastes when they’re around.

He drifts out from behind the pillar he’s been lurking behind for the last half-hour, and watches them explode their way into the hall. The court herald hurries in their wake, struggling to raise his voice above the crowd. ‘The Mighty Nein, heroes of the Kryn Dynasty, retrievers of the lost Beacon, negotiators of peace –’

Jester shouts over him. ‘Solvers of mysteries!’

‘Best detectives ever!’ Veth adds.

The herald stutters, and Essek smiles to himself. There are few pleasures in life quite so satisfying as seeing the Dens get their feathers ruffled.

(Which is why he began to fall in love with the Mighty Nein from the moment they lied terribly to the Bright Queen and produced a sacred relic from a knapsack. The reason he fell a little more when they planted a sixty-foot tree on the roof of their house. They are colour. They are change. They run roughshod over tradition and self-importance and all other stagnant things.

Essek needed that, once, very badly.)

Jester – her tormenting of the page apparently over – stands on tiptoe, craning her neck to peer over the crowd. Then she begins jumping on the spot. A dozen diplomats shoot her withering glares; Essek chuckles, and wonders if she is looking for a particularly stuffy-looking noble to prank. He will recommend Ganya Hythenos, if so.

Caduceus taps Jester on the shoulder and points in Essek’s direction. Jester’s eyes flick towards him, her face splits into a grin, and Essek realises: she was looking for _him._

For the first time, it fully registers with him that his friends are here. For the evening, they will be here. Which means he will not pass the night counting down the hours until he can leave without appearing rude, or making inane conversation with distant relatives while silently snarling at them to _leave him be._ He will not have to spend a single moment lurking in alcoves - unless he finds an opportunity to pull Caleb into one. Just for a few moments. 

The thought is deliciously reckless. Essek straightens his cloak, and moves to float across the room to meet Jester –

And stops. A figure is standing near the entrance, watching the Nein; a figure with gold thread binding her braids and a face made unreadable by seven lifetimes of practice.

His mother’s eyes pass over each of his friends. Then she turns to scan the room.

She is looking for him. Essek ducks back behind the pillar, adjusts the lapel of his tunic, and draws in a few slow breaths. His mother is looking for him, waiting for him to greet the Mighty Nein, so that she can - what? Intercept him, and order him to stay away from them? Watch him, and gauge just how corrupting an influence on him they are?

Essek dares another look. Jester is questing deeper into the crowd; she’s too short to see him over everyone’s heads, but she will find him soon if he doesn’t move away. Caleb, nearby, is laughing with Veth. He’s dressed in navy and silver, a half-cape draped across his shoulders, a few strands of his hair braided. And he is, as always, absurdly handsome.

The last time Essek watched Caleb at a ball – admired how well he wore the formal attire, and drank in the way he moved – it ended with Essek poisoned, chained, and Commanded. Slumped on a crate and baring his soul. It does not have to end that way now. Essek could float over to Caleb, touch his arm, murmur to him, _you’re putting the entire court to shame –_

(And if the Umavi decided this was the final straw? If she decided that Den Thelyss was done playing host to outsiders, and expelled them from their home? What if he could no longer open their door to the sound of clanging windchimes, pass an evening among them, drink the warmth of their hot tub and their company into his bones?)

Time. He needs time. Later, _later_ he can decide if he will take the risk. For now, the Umavi’s eyes will find him at any moment – and Essek needs to be visibly occupied when they do, or she will be at his side in a moment, harping on about how she hopes he isn’t going to spend the evening with those foreign mercenaries when there are dignitaries from the other dens to flatter.

(He knows, of course, that he could point out how this celebration – the anniversary of the peace treaty – would not be happening without those foreign mercenaries. He also knows exactly how much the Umavi would listen: not at all.)

Essek scans the ballroom, and his eyes land upon a possibility – a tall, stocky possibility, making longing eyes at the empty banquet tables. He picks his way through the crowd, making the necessary nods and cursory smiles at the few who greet him as he goes, and drifts to a stop at his brother’s side. ‘Verin.’

The smile Verin turns on him is far more bemused than pleased. ‘Wow. First the peace treaty holds for an entire year, then you approach me of your own free will. Will wonders never cease?’

Essek sighs, and sips his wine. ‘Pretend you’re talking to me.’

‘I _am_ talking to you.’

‘I need to avoid our mother. At least for a little while. As long as I’m engaged in conversation, she might actually leave me in peace.’

‘That’s one miracle that’s not going to happen. The day Mother goes an entire evening without lecturing the both of us will be the day that you decide you enjoy parties.’ Verin pulls a face. ‘ _Verin, I wish you'd had the presence of mind to wear short sleeves. Don't you want the Dens to respect the blood you've shed for our Dynasty? Verin, why aren’t you sweet-talking that dignitary from Den Icozrin who belittles you for being a new soul every time he opens his mouth?_ ’

Essek bites back a smile. ‘And how dare you hold your wine glass without sticking out your little finger? These details are of such importance.’

Verin blinks at him - surprised, apparently, to hear Essek joining in the joke. Understandable. Essek has not, he knows, been anything resembling an approachable brother.

‘If you really want her off your back, why don’t you go and talk with those friends of yours? You’re small, and you barely talk. You’d be invisible among all _that.’_ Verin waves a hand towards the Nein. ‘And they seem like fun.’

Essek permits himself a glance in his friends’ direction. Jester has lost sight of him, and is twisting her head from side to side, frowning, seeking him out. Then Beau touches her arm and jerks a thumb over her shoulder towards the dance floor, and Jester beams and takes her hand. Caleb is somehow holding ten different wine glasses while Veth takes them from him one by one to try them. Yasha has gravitated over to the orchestra and is smiling and tapping her foot in time. Fjord and Caduceus have made their way over to one of the towers of hors d’oeuvres; they’re close enough for Essek to see Caduceus beam and declare that ‘they’ve got little nibbles. That’s nice.’

‘They are indeed fun.’ _And infuriating, and unpredictable, and wonderful._ ‘They have also made, shall we say, the opposite of a positive impression on the Umavi.’

‘She won’t lecture you for consorting with outsiders in the middle of the ballroom. It would be bad for appearances.’

‘Later, she would. You know she would.’ Essek twists the stem of his wine glass back and forth. ‘She already thinks I spend too much time with them. She believes they distract me from my work.’

‘Are you ashamed to be seen with them?’

‘ _No._ But you know our mother. If she decides they are holding me back, she will – ’ It hurts to say it, hurts to even think it – ‘She might have them sent away.’ _Have Caleb sent away._

And even if she did not, then sooner or later, he would have to face her disapproval. The curl of her lip. He would laugh at her inwardly, tell himself that her opinions are irrelevant, and it would be true. But the image of her face would recur to him again and again. The shame would squirm in his gut: unwanted, unnecessary, but unremitting.

(She would be so scornful if she could see these thoughts. She would tell him that a Thelyss does not wallow in fear and guilt. Learn to detach from your emotions, she would say. Which really means, _learn to become reckless with others’ feelings, apathetic to their pain. Become distant. Become like me._

No. Worse. It would mean becoming like _himself,_ the old version of himself who started a war and nearly lost his only friends. In short: no, thank you, mother.)

Essek looks down, so that Verin – watching him, frowning, but saying nothing – will not see any of this on his face. ‘My friends know that things between the Umavi and I are… fraught. If I avoid them for the evening, they will know why. They will understand, and they will forgive me. Our mother will do neither.’

‘Mmm.’ Verin nods slowly. ‘In that case, I should point out that while you’re avoiding them, Mother is not.’

Essek whirls around. Veth has left Caleb – he cannot see where she has gone, among the droves of elves and bugbears and hobgoblins – and the Umavi is standing before him, somehow seeming to tower despite being half a head shorter than he is. Caleb is giving a small, gracious bow.

 _No._ A choking heat rises in Essek’s throat – whether from fear or from rage at his mother, he isn’t sure. He grits his teeth and shoves his glass at Verin. ‘Take this.’

‘I’m not saving this for you. You leave it with me, it’s getting drunk.’

‘Both it and you have my blessing to get drunk. I need to rescue my friend from our mother.’

He doesn’t wait for Verin’s response; the crowd is thick, and Essek needs to move _now_. He darts between limbs and floats over the hems of dresses, honing in on the sound of those two familiar voices. Over the music, he catches, dimly, the words _dunamancy_ and _tutoring._

Silently, Essek curses every one of the gods he doesn’t worship.

‘I feel it is kindest to warn you, Master Widogast,’ his mother is saying. ‘The Bright Queen is reluctant to see any more Dynasty’s magic falling into Empire hands. You are no friend to the Empire, I know.’ Through the swath of moving bodies, Essek glimpses her holds up a hand, though he doesn’t think Caleb had tried to speak. ‘But you are nonetheless a child of the Empire, and a human, and a mage. You represent everything my people fear most. Seeking instruction from the Shadowhand so publicly makes targets of you both. It worries me.’

Essek raises his eyes to the ceiling of the ballroom. _Essek. My name is Essek. It is two syllables, mother._

‘I understand. Though _Essek_ is very careful with what he shares with me,’ Caleb says, and Essek feels far more pleased at the slight emphasis on his own name than he should. ‘It was not for a very long time that he trusted me with anything more than the weakest spells. He loves this magic too much, I think, to be reckless with it.’

 _Keep talking,_ Essek wills him. _Do not give her time to speak._ But she is too quick, of course –

‘And why should the rest of Xhorhas know that, or trust in the caution of a young elf on his first life? How can they be convinced of your good intentions, when I – and I mean no disrespect – am not?’ She raises her hands and clasps them together, rings flashing in the lanternlight. ‘My son's reputation, considering his youth, is fragile. If it is tarnished, so are his prospects, and so is the name of Den Thelyss. So let us not waste our time and intelligence on false pretences. You returned the Luxon’s beacon to us to save your own skins and retrieve something you wanted. Your motivations are personal, Widogast, and I mistrust such motives far more than I mistrust those of a loyal servant of the Empire. King Dwendal’s sycophants can be predicted; your desires, less so. You understand me?’

‘Yes. I understand you.’

Essek dodges around Den Mirimm’s second-youngest daughter, and at last, the space between him and his mother and Caleb is clear. It is time for him to step in. A swift float forward, a bow to the Umavi, and this would be over. He needs to move. Now. _Now._

He doesn’t move, and the Umavi keeps talking.

‘I want to see the Dynasty respected across Wildemount. It strengthens us to have magics that no one beyond our borders understands, and I do not wish to see us made vulnerable because a silver-tongued human charmed our secrets from my son. My son, who is young, and inexperienced, and eager for intellectual peers.’

His lips open to interrupt, Essek freezes. Again. She is wrong, she is _wrong,_ and rage is making his chest feel hot and tight, and why is he still not _moving –_

‘Can you claim that you have never attempted to manipulate his love of knowledge, as you once manipulated the Dynasty’s gratitude when you returned the Beacon? Can you promise that you will never turn the gifts that Essek gave you in good faith towards a selfish or destructive end? I do not ask out of hatred for you; I don't believe you act out of malice. I ask out of love for my Dynasty, and out of love for a son whom I cannot see disgraced.'

Caleb has gone very still – and Essek, at last, drops his float and strides forward. 

He no longer wants to simply interrupt. There’s an urge simmering inside him, to do something reckless, something bold, something that will spite his mother - his vicious, manipulating _liar_ of a mother - more soundly than she has ever been spited before.

Both their heads turn to him as he reaches them, and he bows low. ‘Umavi. My apologies for interrupting.’ Her lips part, but he does something he has never dared to do before, and cuts across her. ‘I was wondering if I might, ah, borrow Master Widogast. For the next dance.’ 

Well. That was unexpected. Essek is full of surprises to himself, these days.

He has also achieved two things he never thought he would accomplish: first, he has shocked his mother enough for it to show on her face. Second, he has trapped her. To forbid the dance would be a staggering breach of decorum; even an Umavi does not have any authority over another’s choice in partner. He knows her, and knows she would rather Essek be shamed for dancing with a human than allow herself to be shamed for overstepping her authority. Let him be the scandal; let him face the repercussions.

Caleb doesn’t smile, but the tension in his stance loosens a little. ‘It would be my pleasure.’

The look the Umavi turns on Essek makes his insides flinch, but he reaches for his anger again, letting it fill him with a profound sense of not giving a damn. A second passes; then she nods. ‘I would not interrupt you.’

Essek bows again, and takes Caleb’s arm.

They head towards the dancefloor, in pace with each other, and it isn’t until a throng of people has passed between them and the Umavi’s that Essek realises he’s clinging too tightly, and relaxes. ‘I’m sorry, I – I should have come to greet you as soon as you all arrived. I didn’t think she’d be quite so quick to single you out.’

‘It’s not your fault.’ Caleb’s fingers run over Essek’s sleeve, and his skin prickles through the fabric. ‘And thank you for the rescue. I hope it will not make trouble for you.’

‘Oh, I am sure it will. But I would much rather take that risk than watch my mother put you on a verbal rack.’

‘Will there be talk?’

‘Far more than talk. Before the evening is out, everyone will be extrapolating some grand tale of our illicit courtship. Not entirely unfairly, of course, but it will be the greatest smear on Den Thelyss’s reputation in decades.’ Essek glances at Caleb, suddenly uncertain. ‘I’m sorry, I – if you’re not comfortable with the idea of being the centre of the Dens’ attention, we can – ’

‘I did say I wanted this dance,’ Caleb says, and there’s a hint of mischief in his smile. He gathers up Essek’s hand and puts an arm around his waist – and Essek decides that his Den’s opinions are astoundingly irrelevant right now.

A second passes; the music begins. Essek takes in a breath and lets Caleb lead the steps. Later, he will care about the eyes on them and handle the consequences. For now, he will drink this in, every moment, every step of the dance, every place of warmth where their bodies touch. He will smile to himself, because Caleb is smiling. And he will smile because the Dens do not know (though they will suspect, now) that Essek has kissed that smile. They do not know that the hands steadying Essek, guiding him through the steps, are hands that have lifted him up after battles and cradled his face and held him at night.

(He knows Caleb’s hands so well. Knows how they look stained with gold dust and ink. Knows how hard they’ll squeeze a shoulder to give comfort, the exact way they fit against the sides of his own face. Knows the scars. The warmth.

How can his mother not see how precious that is?)

‘Will your mother attempt to come between us?’ Caleb asks, and Essek shrugs as best he can with both arms occupied.

‘Undoubtedly. But I am through with playing her games.'

Caleb spins Essek, slowly, and draws him back in. ‘You know that was bullshit, yeah? What she said about loving you and wanting to protect you?'

'But of course. I never expected her to lie so shamelessly, but I suppose she believes it. Seven lifetimes wrangling the manipulations of Den politics rather damages your ability to love except at long range, I think.' Her voice replays in his head, and something him in aches at hearing his mother say _love,_ and knowing it isn't true. ‘And what she said to you was bullshit, too. About taking advantage of me.’ 

‘I was once, though.’ 

‘And I was taking advantage back. It was mutually-assured manipulation; you can't let someone as small as her make you feel guilty for that.’ 

Caleb smiles, just a little. 'Well. Just remember that you have powerful friends. Powerful asshole friends who are always willing to creep into her house and paint dicks on her walls.’

‘I may take you up on that. Perhaps Caduceus could lend a beetle swarm or two.’

The music’s tempo quickens. It’s a game of trust, now: trust that he and Caleb can keep their rhythm and their balance. Which they will. Whether in magical study or in battle or in the uphill climb to being better men, he and Caleb are masters at keeping pace with each other.

‘So,’ Caleb says, after a moment. ‘Is it tradition to hold illicit conversation on the dance floor, where no one can hear?’

‘Oh, absolutely. If you wish to prove yourself truly integrated with the Dynasty, then you must ask after my Denmates, and pretend you’re not trying to gather information on which of my family members is in the most vulnerable political position.’

Caleb’s lips twitch. ‘So, how are your Denmates?’

‘Well, the Umavi is in fine form, as you saw. My brother Verin is busy being embarrassingly taller than me. And everyone else is as petty and self-centred as always. How is _your_ Den?’

‘Excellent. Caduceus is making himself a new bone flute, and last time we visited the Empire, Jester released a flock of chickens into a temple of the Raven Queen.’

Essek nods. ‘Of course she did. Please do tell Jester that the nearest temple to the Luxon is to the north of your abode, on the second street to the right.’

Caleb snorts, and heads turn to face them from every side. And Essek, incredibly, still doesn’t care.

(He knows this song. He has roughly thirty more bars of music in which he doesn’t need to care.)

‘You were avoiding us,’ Caleb says, with twenty-five bars left. ‘When we arrived.’

‘Yes. I’m sorry. I saw the Umavi watching you, and I knew she would be… displeased with me. If she saw me spending time with any of the Mighty Nein, really, but you especially. I didn't want her to suspect - well. This.’ 

He nods towards the space between them. Caleb squeezes his hand, and the gentleness of the gesture is enough to make Essek’s eyes sting.

‘I keep feeling that I have outgrown her,’ he says. ‘That I’m not the same man who – did what I did – because she and my Den expected certain accomplishments of me. I tell myself I’m finally following my own advice: living up to my own expectations, not hers. And then I have to face her disapproval again, and it’s –’ He grits his teeth and searches for words. ‘It suddenly seems impossible that I might ever be free of her. I can’t see myself except through her eyes, or act except as a reaction to her. So I avoided you, because it meant I could avoid her. And avoid having to feel that way again. So useless. So _young.'_

‘Essek,’ Caleb says. His voice is very quiet, and very kind. ‘You can’t cut away the best parts of yourself in the hopes of appeasing someone who holds you in contempt.’

And Caleb is speaking from experience, of course. That is what he did for Trent, and it almost destroyed him.

Essek swallows, and nods. Because Caleb is right, and because Essek would rather cut away the worst parts of himself for the sake of the people who love him.

He has lost count of how many bars they have left. It isn’t many. Essek closes his eyes and holds tight to Caleb’s hand.

The music ends at last, with a soft croon of stringed instruments. Essek breathes out, takes one more moment to drink in his closeness to Caleb, the feeling of Caleb's hand at his waist, then steps back to bow. ‘Thank you for the dance, Master Widogast.’

‘There will be more to come, I hope,’ Caleb says, and Essek smiles. ‘We should find our friends.’

‘Yes,’ Essek says, and then stops, because a familiar figure is hovering near them. ‘Before we do, though – I should introduce you to my brother.’

He steps from the floor, leading Caleb by the arm. Verin waits for them to reach him, then folds his arms and says, ‘You’re off the hook.’

‘How so?’

‘Well, while you were making my evening by disgracing the Den, I went over to the Dusk Captain and pointed you out. I talked about how impressed I was to see my shut-in brother making such open strides towards endorsing Empire-Dynasty co-operation. And then I mentioned my fears that Umavi Thelyss might not see things the same way.’

 _Empire-Dynasty cooperation._ An impressive spin. ‘And?’

‘ _And,_ just as you two were going through the final few steps, Mother was screaming on the inside while Quana Kryn made pleasant conversation about what a wonderful example you were setting. Banishing misconceptions about Empire humans, and all that. I believe the words she used were _exactly the kind of thing the Dynasty wants to encourage right now.’_

Essek stares at him.

It occurs to him, suddenly, that he has always looked down on Verin. He’s sneered inwardly at his brother for carrying a sword rather than a spellbook, for trying to win the Den’s respect through rank and medals and never giving a single thought to the mysteries of the universe. _No ambition,_ Essek had thought, _just eagerness to please._

Light. The Umavi really did do a wonderful job at turning Essek into her.

There’s a heat in his throat, and it’s with some difficulty that he manages to say, ‘Thank you, Verin.’ Silently he adds, _and I’m sorry._

‘Don’t thank me yet. For all we know, Mother’s opinion will swing the other way as soon as she sees a political advantage in this. She’ll be arranging your marriage any day now.’

Before Essek can splutter out any kind of response to this, Verin sticks out his hand to Caleb. ‘So, you’re one of the people who taught Essek the meaning of social interaction? Verin Thelyss. I have the misfortune of being Essek’s younger brother.’

‘Caleb. Caleb Widogast, of the Mighty Nein. I’m Essek’s –’ He stops and glances at Essek, eyebrows raised, a silent query. _Ho_ _w much do you want him to know?_

Verin snorts. ‘I get the distinct impression that you can just leave it at ‘I’m Essek’s.’

Caleb smiles, flushing a little. ‘You could put it that way.’

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you. And even better to run interference for you two and the Umavi; I’ve never got to watch her die slowly on the inside before. It’s a wonderful experience.’

Essek laughs. ‘I wish I had been there to see it. You’ll simply have to find a dance partner as scandalous than mine someday, so that I can return the favour.’

There’s a moment, where Verin grins at him – and Essek sees himself, suddenly, not through his mother’s eyes but through his brother’s. Sees himself as the distant, sharp-tongued older brother who needled Verin and kept his distance and competed against him to show his worth, now transformed into a man who laughs at jokes and defies the Umavi and dances with a human. A man with friends, happy and in love. Appreciating his brother’s kindness.

Essek likes what he sees. He hopes Verin likes it too. It's too late, perhaps, for them to be brothers - but it is not too late for them to try.

‘Come,’ he says, nodding towards the rest of the Nein. ‘We’ll introduce you to our friends.’

‘I’d love to meet them. Especially the one who’s managed to fit a longsword down the back of her dress – I’m _very_ impressed.’

They set off together, across the ballroom. Whispers follow them from every side as they go – and Essek, calm, satisfied, with his brother beside him and Caleb’s hand warm on his arm – does not care.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'The Moon Will Sing' by the Crane Wives.


End file.
